A Thing Of Worth

As a painter dabs this colour or that

From palette arrayed with vibrant hues,

Conjuring unknown greens for grass,

And forming unknown blues for sky,

A startling vermilion for poppy-red,

A yellow unseen for blazing sun,

This is what I would strive to do.

I would paint canvases with words

Splashed random across a page’s face

Pen for brush and words of subtle shade

A vocabulary mixed from many voices

And tuned to many ears

Creating a thing of worth.

But what I have are

Match-stick men for Reuben’s nudes,

Crude scratches that ape da Vinci’s strokes.

Rough carvings for Michelangelo’s David,

Myopic blurs of Monet’s impressions,

Unworthy servant at the master’s feet

Not unlike the fox and grapes.

Only, if only I could aspire to such a thing.

Such heights escape my meagre reach

Those lofty goals a madman’s dream.

I must content myself with doggerel

And targets that exceed my worth.

I would give near all I have for this

And more.

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